Billings watched his readouts. “It’s no longer dropping, but levels are still way too low to run normally. Top her off and let’s get moving.”
A cold wave rolled over me, settling low in my gut. “Sergeant, that was all the spare coolant we had.”
I was back standing on the ground now, and the huge suit swiveled at the waist to regard me. “What?”
“We’re out.”
“Then bleed some off of the other suits.”
I shook my head. “We don’t have a siphon. And they’re all running at minimum levels to conserve.”
“So you’re telling me if I power back up to full, I’m going to overheat.” Billings’s voice was flat, dangerous, and I took an involuntary step back.
“Yes, Sergeant.” My mind raced. “I guess we could use water. It wouldn’t last long, but it might get us back to base.” Then the stupidity of what I’d said registered. In a smaller voice, I added, “But we don’t have any water, either.”
The sergeant let out a frustrated growl. “Then fucking well find some, Halfie!”
I didn’t argue. As he returned to addressing the squad, I gathered up the empty coolant tanks, my synthetic tool bag, and anything else that might hold water and ran into the surrounding trees.
At first I had no idea where to go. What was I even looking for? As far as I was concerned, water came out of taps. But then I remembered the gully, and figured that if it was indeed a dry streambed, perhaps it would lead down to one that was still wet. The skin on my hands screamed and left wet marks on the rocks as I scrambled down the side of the ravine and began walking along its bottom, following it down off the ridgeline.
My mind kept going back to the dead men. I’d known in theory that the rebels were human, the same strain as the locals, yet somehow I’d expected them to look different. More bloodthirsty. Despite the fact that I could sketch mechanical diagrams for every piece of ordnance on a heavy suit and had seen the weapons in action a thousand times on video or the parade grounds, I’d never really imagined those bullets ripping through anything but practice dummies. Now I saw the sergeant’s round take the rebel in the back and the man’s chest exploding, over and over again.
I must have walked like that for some time, because when I snapped back out of my reverie, I found myself in a shaded hollow in the valley, the underbrush much thicker than it had been on the dusty ridgeline. Sure enough, here was the trickle and babble of a stream. I thrashed my way through the tall, woody grasses until I was standing in it.
The water was no more than ten centimeters deep, but it was there. The trees were so thick that even the transitioning lenses of the welding goggles were too dark, and I pushed them up onto my head. I dropped my bundle of cans on the bank and bent to hold the mouth of the first one under the current. The cool water felt good on my burned hands.
A branch cracked.
I froze. For the first time, I wished that I had some sort of weapon, which was stupid—techs didn’t carry weapons. But listening to the grass rustle and twigs break, I suddenly felt alone and exposed in a way I’d never known.
The sounds drew closer, and I stayed perfectly still, the current running around my boots and the overflowing coolant container. The grasses on the other side of the stream parted.
It was a man. He had the same mottled skin as the locals, but his clothing was more muted, khaki painted with yellow stripes that made him blend in with the mold–encrusted grasses. He wore a brimmed hat and held a string of several canteens strung together by the clever expedient of screwing the attached cap of each onto its neighbor. Over one shoulder hung an honest–to–god infantryman’s rifle, so old that its stock was made of nicked and polished wood instead of plastic.
A rebel. His eyes widened as he saw me, his irises a shockingly bright green, and he glanced quickly in all directions, searching for suited soldiers. Not knowing what else to do, I remained where I was.
When it became apparent that no soldiers were forthcoming, the man relaxed and smiled. He spoke, and in the stream of strangely accented syllables I was able to make out the word “alone.” It had the sound of a question.
Not seeing any advantage in lying, I nodded.
He bobbed his head in return and squatted down by the stream without any further ceremony. Watching him fill his canteens, I remembered my own task and set to it, filling the squared–off coolant containers and then capping them tightly.
I thought about how I must look to him. I was no more than half his size, my skin pale. Though his frame was thin, there was still a corded muscle to it that mine lacked. His face was clean–shaven, but my filter–covered cheeks had never grown hair. I put him at perhaps mid–twenties—the same as Billings, if he and the soldiers aged at the same rate. To him, someone who’d likely never seen or heard of a tech, I must look like a child playing in the stream.
He finished filling his canteens and sat back on his haunches, arms folded over his knees.
“The soldiers sent you?” he asked. Das soldiears sendu?
I nodded.
He shook his head in wonderment, and then dug around in a pocket. He came up with half of a foil–wrapped candy bar, its packaging stamped prominently with the C–grade symbol.
Military personnel weren’t supposed to eat anything below A–grade, but Billings had a sweet tooth, and sometimes when the squad accompanied supply shipments into the township I’d seen him come back with one of these.
The man held it out to me. I stared at it until he shrugged and put it away.
“You don’t have to go back,” he said. His words were getting easier to understand as I grew used to the strange accent. “Come with me. We can hide you, keep you safe from the soldiers.”
Safe from the soldiers? I shook my head, wanting to explain that soldiers were what kept people safe, and that the rebels would be safe too if they’d just stop fighting. What were they even fighting for, anyway? But before I could open my mouth, my com bead began squawking.
“Halfie! Where the hell are you?”
The man looked to the com bead in my ear, then back to me. He waited.
I turned so I wasn’t looking directly at him and spoke into the bead. “I found a stream,” I said. “Filled up, on my way back.”
“Good,” said Billings, and the line cut out again.
On the opposite bank, the rebel stood, watching me. He lifted an eyebrow.
I shook my head.
My answer clearly disappointed him, but he didn’t say anything more. Instead he raised a hand in farewell, then turned and disappeared into the brush.
I watched the spot where he’d vanished for several moments, then realized I was wasting time. As quickly as I could, I filled up the last of the tanks and my gear bag and began jogging back the way I had come, the heavy load slapping and sloshing against my back with every step.
Clambering up the side of the ravine was difficult, but soon I was back on the ridge where Billings and the rest of the soldiers waited impatiently. Using my shirt to filter the water as best I could, I dumped the contents of the containers into the suit’s coolant reservoir. I’d have to flush the hell out of the system later, but for now the levels stayed steady.
“Nice work, Halfie,” Billings said. “Now strap in and get your gear stowed. Carrell, do you still have a read on the tags?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” said the soldier in question, her tactical suit decorated with several long whip antennae. “All three have regrouped and stopped moving less than three klicks from here.”
“All right,” Billings said. “Let’s get moving. Mount up.”
Even as I secured the last of the containers, we were off again. The suits crashed down the ridge in great bounds, following Carrell’s relayed signal on their canopy displays.
The specialist had said that they had three tags. That meant that somewhere nearby, three rebels were hiding in the trees with barbed radio beacons lodged deep in their flesh. In theory, any of the suits could follow them at that range, but Carrell’s su
it was specially rigged for com and recon and would pick up the signal the easiest.
Our path took us in a straight line, the soldiers no longer bothering to find the best route but simply powering through any brush thinner than a full–grown bambyan tree. We pounded across the little stream I’d found, the suit’s three–toed feet leaving tracks like enormous birds in the soft banks. Branches whipped and slashed at us as I hung in the webbing, and I pulled the welder’s goggles down again to protect my eyes.
“Five hundred meters,” called the sergeant over the com band. “Get ready.”
There came a rifle shot—possibly at us, possibly a sentry’s warning—and then another. The soldiers didn’t even slow. With a last lashing from the long grass and branches, we burst out of the trees and into a clearing.
It was small, only a fraction the size of the base, but the open area was cluttered with tents and crude wooden structures. Nets of rope wound with local vines and branches covered all the buildings, breaking up their outlines and making them the same yellow–brown as the rest of the forest, no doubt helping hide them from satellite surveillance.
There were people everywhere. Most were men, both old and young, but there were a few women as well. Some wore rifles, like the man I’d seen at the stream; others had outdated energy weapons. All wore variations on the same yellow–slashed khaki meant to blend with the landscape. Some appeared to be in the process of breaking down the camp, while others were assembling what looked to be homemade incendiary devices. The rest crouched in defensive positions along the perimeter, weapons pointed our direction.
For a moment, both sides stared at each other, the ten armored soldiers standing in a towering line at the forest’s edge, the hundred or more rebels of the camp gaping at the offworlders in their midst.
Sergeant Billings broke the silence.
“Burn it.”
It burned. The suited soldiers marched through the camp like giants, heedless of the bolts and bullets that caromed off their metal carapaces. Rebels screamed and fell beneath the scythe of machine gun fire or exploded in the staccato roar of the autocannons. Then all sound was subsumed in the bass whumph of Sergeant Billings’s activated flamer. Gouts of burning accelerant sprayed from one great arm like dragon’s breath, coating buildings and engulfing men in a white–hot nimbus.
I closed my eyes.
It was over in moments. The explosions and rapid–fire retorts were replaced by the crackle of flames and the slow whines and clicks of weapons powering down and cycling out hot barrels. My face felt raw and slick from the heat, and I opened my eyes only when I felt Billings move out into cooler air.
The camp was burning. Every surface seemed alight, sending oily black clouds high into the sky. Somewhere on the far side of the clearing, a fuel or munitions cache exploded, sending up a mushrooming fireball. Smoking bodies covered the ground around us, their twisted shapes burned black and fetal. I struggled in my sling, looking for anywhere safe to rest my gaze, and settled for staring up into the black–and–blue sky.
On the com band, Billings checked in with his squad. Several soldiers were making wide circuits of the camp, scanning the trees and counting bodies. After a few moments they regrouped and compared notes
“Think that’s all of them, Sergeant?” Jacobs asked.
“It matches the estimates,” Billings responded. “Or close enough. And this has to represent the majority of their supplies. Any that are still left out there are likely to keep on running.”
“Shall we go after them, Sergeant? Do a wide perimeter sweep, just in case?” Jacobs’s voice was tense, excited.
Billings considered it for a moment. “Negative, Private. We’re done here. Let’s pack it in and return to base.”
There was a chorus of assent, and then the suits were once more taking their huge strides back across the clearing, angry gods returning to the forest. As we left the camp, I made the mistake of looking down one last time.
Next to the suit’s enormous foot lay a corpse. The jellied fuel of the flamethrowers had caught him full in the face and upper torso, clinging like a second burning skin. His features were blackened beyond all recognition, flesh shriveled and bone showing through in places. A few stray flames still flickered and danced beneath exposed ribs in the ruined cathedral of his chest.
On the ground near him, a crumpled foil candy wrapper fluttered in the breeze.
I closed my eyes again.
§
Captain Reyes’s face filled the wall. “Status?”
Sergeant Billings stepped forward to his usual place. “At oh–nine–hundred hours this morning, the entire squad and one of the techs entered the field, heading west along the main road through the township and—”
Reyes cut him off. “One of the techs?”
“Suit difficulties, sir. From the EFP yesterday. Field repair was expected, and it was either that or leave one of the heavy suits behind. I judged that the risk to base assets was minimal.”
Reyes grunted. “The politicos won’t like a tech being seen out in public.”
“Understood, sir.”
Reyes’s deep–set eyes drilled into Billings. “Fine. Continue.”
Billings gave a concise report of the day’s events, finishing with, “It’s my belief that we’ve effectively broken the Liberation Front, sir.”
Reyes’s lips twisted, and I realized that he was smiling.
“I’m glad to hear it, Sergeant. And the butcher’s bill?”
“Further superficial damage to several of the suits, sir. No casualties.”
“No casualties!”
The entire room turned to look at me, and it was only then that I realized I had spoken. My porridge sat forgotten as I stood up.
“Sergeant,” Reyes said slowly, “why is it talking?”
“Sorry, sir,” Billings said hastily, then looked back to me. “Halfie,” he said, voice low, “you’ve had a long day. You and Tom should rack out.”
“But you said no casualties!” I found it hard to believe that I was still speaking, but something unfamiliar had taken hold of my throat and wasn’t letting go. “What about the people we shot? The ones we set on fire? They’re all dead!”
Sergeant Billings clenched his jaw, clearly unhappy to be having this conversation in front of Reyes. “Those were rebels, Halfie. Not our people. Hence no casualties.”
“But—”
“You’re dismissed, tech!”
I started to say more, but the command in Billings’s gaze froze any further words in my throat. I felt every eye in the room watching as I walked slowly across the cafeteria, collected Tom, and passed through the door into the hall. From behind me, I could hear the sergeant apologizing to Captain Reyes.
Then the door swung closed, and Tom and I were alone.
§
The sergeant found me in the armory the next evening, hard at work on an injured suit. There had been no patrol that morning, and neither Tom nor I had seen any of the soldiers all day, as neither of us had felt like entering the mess hall during their meals. Instead, Tom and I had taken our food back to our bunks. We’d had a lot to talk about.
Billings walked alone across the concrete floor. When he saw that I’d seen him, he raised a hand.
“Hey, Halfie. Come down from there for a minute. I need to talk to you.”
I set down my soldering iron, balancing it carefully on the big suit’s shoulder, then swung down until I was standing on the floor.
“Sergeant?”
Billings sat on the squared–off lip of the recessed repair bay so that he was almost at eye level with me. He ran a hand through his red–brown hair and sighed.
“Listen, Halfie, about last night… I’m sorry for how that went down. It’s not your fault. You’ve never seen combat before, and you’re naturally a little shaken. I wanted to let you know that I’m not mad at you.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not,” Billings said, one hand balling into a f
ist. “I was wrong to take you into the field. You didn’t need to see any of that. And the captain—well, he’s from an older school of thought. I just wanted to let you know that we don’t all think like him. As far as I’m concerned, you and Tom are people, the same as us. Understood?”
I wanted to ask him why he and I were people, but the man with the candy bar wasn’t. But I said only, “Yes, Sergeant.”
Billings smiled, his face dropping the weight it had been carrying. “Thank you, Halfie.”
I wasn’t sure what he was thanking me for, but I replied anyway. “You’re welcome.”
The sergeant looked like he might have wanted to say more, but instead he turned and walked back across the bunker. The metal fire door swung closed behind him with a clang.
I climbed back up to my perch behind the suit’s opened right shoulder and retrieved my soldering iron, but my mind wasn’t on the circuits. Using the hot iron, I made the last of the changes, then closed up the panels. Across the room with the tactical suits, Tom caught my eye. I nodded.
Inside me, that familiar warmth was spreading again. Sergeant Billings had been worried about my feelings. He really was my friend, just as I’d always known.
I was going to miss him.
I clambered down one last time, then pulled the sack of supplies from where I’d stashed it inside the diagnostic cart. At the far wall, Tom pushed the button for the big roll–up door. He joined me in front of it as the motor whined and metal slats clicked slowly up and out of the way. Outside, the night was dark save for a few lights at the guardhouse. Beyond the fence, the grass blew in long waves.
I hefted a set of bolt cutters.
We had one full day until the dropship arrived with new supplies. At least two weeks before they managed to get a new tech down here to repair the disabled suits, sorting out the mess of our rewiring and bringing the weapons and drive systems back online. More than enough time for two small techs to disappear into those fields, find what remained of the rebels, and see what they had to say. To learn what exactly this war was about, and where we fit into it.
War Stories Page 22