War Machine (The Combat-K Series)

by Andy Remic

  “Sharks?” muttered Franco.

  “I thought you did your research?” laughed Pippa. “The Milk Sea is crawling with them. The water gives them powerful nutrients, and they hunt by scent anyway so the clouded waters don’t impede navigation and feeding; they grow real big here.”

  “Don’t like sharks,” muttered Franco, and climbed onto the boat. He helped Rebekka to board, and the others climbed on, Betezh jabbed hard in the spine by Keenan’s MPK.

  Then, through the mist came a tiny buzzing sound, and Cam emerged, a little more battered, a little more dented, a little more aggravated. He floated graciously to Keenan’s side, and the big man smiled at the machine.

  “I knew you weren’t dead, little buddy.”

  “I got caught up in a magnetic field from one of the engines; dragged me to the bottom of the sea.”

  “Thought you smelt a little fishy,” guffawed Franco.

  “Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour.” Cam’s voice was as cold as the tomb-world.

  Franco pushed the boat out, then jumped in with a splash of spray. They bobbed for a few moments, and Cam analysed the boat’s controls. “Pretty standard,” he said, smugly. “Should be no problem for a team like this. After all, you’re professional.”He seemed to be staring hard at Franco, although they couldn’t be sure. He had no eyes.

  Franco made for the controls; Pippa halted him. “Where you going, midget?”

  Franco frowned. “I will pilot.”

  “Oh no, that’s my job.”

  “What, after you crashed the Hornet?”

  Pippa reddened. “We were shot out of the damn sky!”

  “You were still in charge. What about, y’know, anti-missile missiles? ATRAMS? Scorchers? And all that? I thought you were the best? Well, you did a damn shit job back there, lass.”

  Pippa shoved Franco hard. “Ipilot. You keep an eye on your boyfriend, just in case he needs more stitches.”

  Now it was Franco’s turn to redden.

  Pippa revved the engine, then cruised out into the mist leaving the white-sand shore behind. She eased along the pink ridge of coral and, as they passed close, they could see creatures embedded, fossilised, in its angular flanks. All looked to be in agony: tiny mouths open, screaming.

  “Hell, look,” said Franco.

  Pippa slowed the boat. There, embedded, was a Ket-i warrior, bent over almost double, mouth open in a terrible agony. He was frozen, fossilised in the pink coral, a bas-relief carving.

  “Back off,” snapped Keenan.

  “What?”

  “Get back! Now!” he hissed, voice tinged with panic.

  Pippa slammed the engines into reverse and the Raptor spun, but even as they were moving, the coral also started to move... and with tiny crackling crunches its angular form jerked, sections piling out in staccato columns towards the boat and there, at the end, long pink razor-sharp teeth.

  “Nooo!” howled Franco.

  Keenan discharged twenty rounds into the crackling coral maw, which chipped and splintered, sparks flying, slivers of pink and white shearing free and tumbling into the Milk Sea. Pippa slammed the Raptor into power mode. The engines roared, suddenly unleashed from their stealth encumbrance, and the Raptor howled away back towards the beach.

  She spun the boat around with a surge of water. They watched, horrified, and the coral crackled, and then returned to its angular rigid mould. In the blink of an eye it was static, a tableaux. Echoes of gunshots reverberated through the mist. Booms clattered distantly.

  Mist drifted and swirled.

  The sounds of other Raptor Boats increased.

  “Get us out of here,” growled Keenan, rubbing at his stubbled chin. Franco joined him, and they hung over the sides of the boat, MPKs tracking the mist as Pippa threw caution to the wind and slammed the throttle forward. Engines roared, the sounds reverberating and they hammered, bouncing across white waters, past the aggressive attack coral, or whatever the hell type of mutation it was, and out onto the open sea.

  The mist was thicker and more enduring than they had thought. After ten minutes of flat out high speed, bouncing from one wave to the next, Pippa halted their progress and they sat, riding the gentle swell of milk waves as Franco stabbed at his PAD. They seemed to have lost the other boats.

  “OK. Fortune gave us several points of reference in case of emergency. Using his navigation coordinates, I can take us to a disused military base, an old Gem Rig.”

  Keenan nodded. “Might be some supplies. God knows we need them, even the basics. Patch the co-ordinates through to the computer; Pippa, check he’s doing it right.”

  “Hey!” snapped Franco.

  “Hey yourself,” said Keenan. “I don’t want any more bullshit. This mission has been a farce from start to finish. From this point on, I want everything checking and double-checking. If you don’t like it Franco, then you’d better swim back to that island, because that’s the way it’s going to be.”

  “What’s a Gem Rig?” said Rebekka. She looked tired, weary from the heat and the tension of being hunted. Her hair was matted, face drawn, rings around her eyes.

  “The Ket-i are renowned through the Quad-Gal for their extraction of jewels. Beneath the Milk Sea and areas of jungle there is a plethora of gems to be found: diamonds, rubies, emeralds, kankas, sapphires, yuyus, and all manner of even more esoteric gemstones. The Ket-i are experts in extraction, cutting and polishing. Their stones—at least before the war and accelerated unpopularity—were much sought. Gems made Ket a rich world; vast fortunes of which they spent on arms and hardware.” Keenan smiled grimly. “A Gem Rig is just that: a floating platform out to sea used in the extraction of precious stones. This one is—according to Fortune—abandoned. It was a Gem Rig, then the fields were cleaned out and it was eventually used by the Ket-i military as an offshore storage depot. Now, it seems, it no longer has any intrinsic military value.”

  Rebekka nodded. “Yeah. Now I think about it, in The City such stones pass for great sums. They used to be smuggled in, back when we had customs. Those days are long gone.” She smiled, rubbing at her eyes. “You look tired, Keenan.”

  “You too.”

  “I think we could all do with some sleep.” She caught Pippa’s stare and smiled sweetly. Pippa turned away. She worked with Franco on inputting PAD coordinates on an alien system; then she slammed the Raptor Boat forward through the Milk Sea on waves of pure white.

  The mist was burned off within the hour, to be replaced by towering thunder clouds gathering quickly, silently, eerily overhead. The humidity was great, increasing by the minute, or so it felt; the air was filled with a charge of static, and the weather left most of the group in a state of undress as Pippa piloted the Raptor unchallenged across the apparently deserted waters of the Milk Sea.

  “It’s gonna tonk it down,” said Franco, eventually, face beaming red with sunburn.

  “Good,” said Keenan, “I could do with a little coolant.”

  Pippa glanced at him, then at Rebekka. “I can see that,” she said. Rebekka looked away.

  They cruised through the day, hours dragging by in the heat as still clouds towered and the humidity increased. Rebekka and Betezh basked at the rear of the boat, Betezh’s arms tied tight behind him, his eyes burning with an ever-increasing hatred. Pippa piloted, Keenan navigated, and Franco checked their weapons and played with the WarSuits, checking circuits and internal logic systems. Cam followed at a discreet pace, small black shell spinning, tiny yellow lights flickering against his battered shell.

  Eventually, the rain came.

  One minute the sea was calm, then a wind blew cool air in a welcome gasping relief. It grew dark. The heavens suddenly opened and a tropical storm smashed down.

  Everyone on the boat turned faces to the sky and basked in the deluge of warm raindrops.

  After an hour, something loomed ahead through the pounding rain. Made shapeless by the storm, it rose from the sea like a titan, an edifice, a cliff-side. Pippa
halted, stealth engines back in play, the Raptor bobbing and rising on swells, then sweeping down into troughs.

  “What do you think?”

  “We have few options,” said Keenan, hoisting his slick MPK. “We need food and water, better weapons and ammunition. I wish we knew what bastard blew us out of the sky; I’d like to give him some payback. A few bullets up the arse, for sure.”

  “The WarSuits are good to go,” said Franco, glancing up. He held a small cross-head screwdriver. Keenan stared at it.

  “What’ve you been doing with that?”

  “Tweaking.”

  “Well, don’t touch my fucking suit. I want it bespoke, not meddled with by a monkey on anti-depressants.”

  “Harsh, Keenan.”

  “Well, just keep your twin-thumb paws off.”

  “Plan?”

  “Me and Franco will suit up, swim ahead, check out this Gem Rig. If it’s clear, we’ll call you in.”

  “And if its not?”

  Keenan grinned with his teeth; and without humour. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Keenan and Franco, guns strapped to their backs, swam through the rain. The Gem Rig came gradually closer, towering above them for what seemed like a hundred storeys, but was probably closer to fifty. It shifted gently like a floatation skyscraper, huge waist-thick mooring cables spanning from higher reaches and disappearing under the milk.

  Keenan stopped, treading water. Rain smashed around him.

  “We OK?” said Franco.

  “You’ve got better eyesight, but I can see no lookouts.”

  “Me either, and the PAD is clear.”

  “I don’t trust tek. It can be fooled.”

  “The PAD is advanced, Keenan.”

  “Stuff the PAD.”

  “You’re in a fine mood.”

  “Well tek landed us in this crap. Why didn’t the Hornet detect an attack? What a load of shit. I trust only my eyes and ears from now on... and my gun.”

  “A fine philosophy.”

  “Let’s move.”

  They swam closer, under the shadow of the looming Gem Rig. Up close, it was truly, truly massive. A dark mass with decks rearing above them led to boxed-in quarters, then, further up, cranes and platforms, huge factories on stilts, then even further up the edifice more sections reminiscent of a hotel rather than a drilling and mining platform.

  “It has no right to sit on the sea like that,” said Franco. “It shouldn’t be able to float.”

  Keenan grunted something incomprehensible.

  They found a wide landing pad, once commonly used for boats but now rusted by the high salt and mineral content of the Milk Sea. Warily, they climbed free, each covering the other with MPK. Standing in the dark WarSuits—which had adapted organically to fit them like a second armoured skin—both men stared up at the monster above and around them.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” said Franco.

  “Me too. Come on. Let’s clear the place.”

  A metal staircase led up and they crept with guns primed. The next level was a loading bay with short, squat cranes and abandoned drilling gear. Huge wheels and machinery sat rusting silently. This platform must have been a hive of activity once; probably a quarter of a square kilometre, now it was cold and desolate. Even Franco shivered.

  “How come the sun doesn’t heat down here?”

  “Mass, I think,” said Keenan, voice low, almost reverent. “The whole structure acts like a huge heat sink. It would take twenty suns to heat this interior; the simple twins just don’t have the firepower.”

  Franco checked his PAD. “Still nothing. I think you’re being overcautious.”

  “Yeah, but who’s the boss?”

  “Lead the way then, boss.”

  Keenan moved through the ghostly interior. Rain pounded around the distant edges of H-section supported alloy, dripping from ledges in long white streamers. Shadows fell in strange patterns. Above, the whole world seemed to rest on vast metal shoulders. It was incredibly oppressive and claustrophobic, and Franco found he was ducking unnecessarily as he moved, as if frightened the whole bulk of the Gem Rig would come crushing down on his head.

  They found another flight of stairs. Above, something clattered, distant and muffled.

  Keenan shot Franco a glance. “Still think we’re alone?”

  Franco cocked his weapon and checked the mag. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

  The ramp was wide, trickling with intruding rainfall. Keenan walked slowly up, MPK tracking above him, finger on the hairline trigger. Franco followed close, covering arcs of fire.

  A warehouse. Huge rusted crates stood abandoned. Lots of hiding places, thought Keenan. He moved warily, and came to a small flickering fire. Flames crackled within a ring of steel blocks, the edges of which glowed. Stools stood around the fire, again fashioned from metal and once set with precious gems, all of which had been prised free. Now only rust and decay claimed these items; and the place as a whole.

  “A ghost town,” said Franco.

  “Somebody was here.”

  Suddenly, Franco unleashed a hail of bullets at the ceiling. Metal screeched on metal. Sparks crackled, and Keenan half-ducked, eyes squinting and angry as he glared at Franco.

  “What you doing, dumb arse?”

  “Sorry! Sorry.”

  Distantly, they heard a scrabbling sound, and saw movement.

  “It’s kids,” said Franco, voice low. He strode forward, and Keenan followed. Between two crates they came upon a group of six or seven children, it was hard to tell in the gloom. Not one was over the age of twelve years, and they stared back with wide eyes, stark against jet black skin. They cowered, as if expecting violence.

  Franco lowered his gun and crouched down. “It’s OK,” he said, and held out his hand.

  “They’re not dogs, Franco.”

  Ignoring Keenan, Franco moved forward in a strange Quasimodo half-walk, half-crouch, and the children reached out, touching his hand as if it was a thing of wonder. Then Franco stood, suddenly, and the kids shrank back, fear etched on ebony faces.

  “Come on,” said Franco, “back to the fire. We mean you no harm. Can you understand me?”

  One boy, the largest of the group, pushed to the front and nodded warily. His eyes were haunted. “I understand you,” he said, his words coming thick and slow, slurred by the inevitability of different customs, different cultures, different worlds. In one hand he carried a slim bottle of water and he drank from it, nervously.

  “We mean you no harm.”

  “I am Klik,” said the boy. He held out his free hand, and solemnly Franco shook it.

  “I’m Franco, Franco Haggis. What you doing here, lad?”

  “We are from tribes on the mainland, near the capital city you know as Amrasar. When the tribes go to war and our fathers and mothers are killed, we are to die also. They slaughter us in our beds; they hang us from city walls by our necks. They cut off our arms and put out our eyes. They leave us impaled on spikes on the Crimson Walks leading up to The City of Bone.”

  “So you run away? Here?”

  “Yes. This is Haven. This is our salvation.”

  “Why do they kill you?” asked Franco, voice soft, eyes burning. “You are but children?”

  “We will grow into men: tough men, men with a good reason to kill and die, and seek revenge. Men like us would be a great danger in future years; so they slaughter us like cattle when our families are gone.”

  “How many are you?”

  “Just this seven,” said Klik. He smiled, narrowing his thin lips. “Yesterday we were ten; a week ago, twenty; but more will come, on boats, or swimming, or on rafts. Haven is an underground beacon. It calls to the children. More will come, and then we can fight the Dogs; maybe then we will find more food and we can eat like kings!”

  They walked back to the fire and sat around the flames. Only then did Keenan and Franco realise that the fire was not a traditional, wood-burning fire, but a metta-melt furnace; a small
one, but still metta-melt. They watched the spikes of metal melt and fold, then re-form to be burned again. The flames were tinged with purple and green. It was hypnotic; would have been romantic if their surroundings hadn’t been so bleak.

  “Why do so many die here?” asked Franco. His eyes locked on Keenan, and Keenan gave a single nod: patronage.

  Klik put his head in his hands, for a moment. “This place is a maze. It used to be military base. Upstairs are the supplies stores, on Deck 15. This is the place we get our food; the place that allows us to survive.”

  “And the Dogs?”

  “The Dogs guard the stores. We take it in turns, sneak in and steal what few tins we can. But sometimes the Dogs find us, sniff us out. When they do, they slaughter us.”

  “Are there many supplies here?” asked Keenan, and Klik looked at the large man for the first time.

  He nodded. “Hundreds and hundreds of metal containers, boxes, drums; all stamped, some with clothing, some food, some weapons. But the Dogs are so dangerous; they are merciless. We have tried to kill them, but they are too powerful.”

  “We can take care of a few dogs!” beamed Franco, and hoisted his MPK. “Can’t we Keenan? Time for a bit of muzzling, I think.”

  Ignoring Franco, Keenan stared at Klik. “What are these Dogs? Before my friend goes volunteering us for certain death.”

  “There are three of them,” said Klik, carefully.

  “Ha! Only three!” buzzed Franco. His eyes gleamed. He patted Klik on the shoulder. “We’ll clear you a path to the food stores, lad. Don’t you worry you none.”

  “‘Don’t you worry you none?’ Franco, what the hell are you gibbering about?” Franco simply grinned and cocked his MPK. As if to say: “we mean business”, which of course, they did.

  “They are machines,” said Klik, “with battle armour. Your guns will have no effect. We have tried; we got weapons from the stores, but their armour is too thick. They are indestructible!”

  “Stay here,” said Keenan, standing. “I’ll go back for the others. Listen, are there other enemies on this Rig? Any men? Ket-i?”

  Klik shook his head. “The Rig is deserted, except for the Dogs. But they are enough. They have killed... perhaps a hundred of us, over the past year. We let the sea claim bodies in a final ritual.”