by Mark Barber
“Are we taking prisoners, Boss?” Van Noor asked.
“No,” Tahl hissed through gritted teeth.
Van Noor and Cane ran up and pointed their carbines straight into the Ghar warrior, both of them firing extended bursts of three or four seconds which tore the little creature into pieces inside the suit’s cockpit. Anger surging through him, Tahl turned his back on the three Ghar and folded his arms – the symbolic gesture of disrespect for a defeated adversary which was considered the height of disgraceful conduct in kerempai. It still seemed fitting to Tahl.
“Crack open that first suit as well,” he ordered his men, “make sure its dead.”
The thump of artillery to both the north and south continued. Orders and reports streamed across the shard command network. Tahl removed his helmet and looked down at the ground, drops of sweat immediately falling from his face and mixing in the sand at his feet. He checked Squad Wen’s shard for vital signs on his three casualties. Two were dead, one had a few minutes left.
“Get a medi-drone up here and stabilize that trooper, now,” he ordered Van Noor before turning to face the survivors of the squad.
Jemmel, Qan, Sessetti, and Clythe stared at him in silence. He did not need to check their emotions through the shard; he could see it in the way they stood and regarded him. They were more terrified of him than the enemy.
“You four,” he stared at them, “get your act together and follow me. I’m only just warming up with these bastards.”
***
The numbness and confusion was more uncomfortable than the pain and nausea as Rhona slowly opened her eyes. She lay on her back in a darkened room, with some source of light only visible as a blur to her right. She tried to sit up but felt an iron grip along the left hand side of her body which prevented her from moving. Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, she turned her head to the right.
A long viewscreen showed her a panoramic view of the stars. Somewhere off across the eternal blanket of space, a green planet punctuated the blackness, but with her vision still blurred, she had no idea which system she was in. Rhona lifted her left hand, surprised at the effort it required, and ran it tentatively down the left hand side of her body. An alloy glove cocooned her from left knee up to her armpit, with various cables, pipes, and tubes feeding into it from a machine to the left of her bed. Only then did she remember looking up at the colossal Ghar who stood over the broken bodies of her friends, their guns pointed down at her as she desperately tried to reach Gant and Rae.
Rhona closed her eyes again. There was no Squad Wen, the eternal presence of that shard and the familiar feeling of those she shared it with was gone, amputated from her mind. A few deep breaths, no doubt kick started by whatever drugs were being forced into her by the machine she shared the room with, gave some relief from the panic rising within her. She opened her eyes again and made out a doorway perhaps half a yan from the foot of her bed. She concentrated on the features of the door and tried to focus her vision as mentally she reached out for a shard – any shard – that she must be connected with to find some other source of life.
Ward 2, Recovery, Patients’ Communal.
Rhona was already connected. She breathed a sigh of relief as she felt the presence of other Concord soldiers in her mind, a familiar comfort akin to the knowledge of friends to either side in times of adversity. One presence leapt out at her, one she knew well.
“Gant?”
The reply through the shard was instantaneous, the familiar voice in her head as clear as if he shared the room with her.
“Kat? You’re up? You okay? How d’you feel?”
“What happened? How did I get here? Where are we?”
“We got hit pretty bad, buddy. You’ve been out for days now.”
The doors at the foot of the bed opened and a medi-drone hovered into the room at waist height, moving up to stop near Rhona’s shoulder. The small droid had two arms dangling down from a bulbous central core – one arm was fitted with manipulators similar to a small claw for physical surgery whilst the other had a bio-scanner.
“Good morning, Katya,” the droid said gently. “Are you comfortable with me calling you that?”
Rhona looked up wearily at the drone and nodded mutely. If anything, she was more uncomfortable by the amount of time and effort which went into programming medical drones with a bedside manner; whilst most drones were sentient and capable of conversation, it was only really the medical ones which attempted to mimic panhuman nuances in an attempt to put their patients at ease. It did exactly the opposite with Rhona.
“You’ll be up and running soon,” the drone said with a positive tone, “you’ll make a full recovery. You’ve been in a coma for twelve days now. We had to do that to allow your brain to recover.”
“My brain?” Rhona slurred. “I got shot… in the side. I remember… I took hits in the…”
“There’s no easy way to tell you,” the drone said, “but remember, you will make a full recovery, there’s nothing to worry…”
“Tell me what?” Rhona demanded.
“You died,” the drone replied. “By the time medical aid could get to you, you were technically already dead. Your heart had stopped for over seven minutes.”
Rhona felt panic rising up from her gut again.
“I’m dead?” She stammered. “So I’m a clone? So I’m not real? The real me is dead and I’m just a clone?”
“I died! Gant, I died! I’m not me, this isn’t me!”
“It’s alright,” the drone said soothingly, “you are not a clone. We were able to save your original body. You need to try to relax and calm yourself. We were able to repair all of the damage to your brain. You will make a full recovery, but you need to give it time.”
“Impossible, you must have the wrong end of the stick,” Gant replied. “Don’t believe what’s outside the window. We’re still on Markov’s Prize.”
“Where am I?” Rhona raised one hand to her head, trying to process the overflow of information.
“Settlement Urban 21, locally the city is called New Wryland. The hospital here has been substantially modified since the planet joined the Concord. You have the most modern medical facilities available to take care of you.”
“What can you see out of your window, Kat?” Gant asked. “They have a prod around inside your head and they project some soothing scene on the window to try to relax you. Don’t worry, we’re okay. It’s snowing where I am, and I’m only three rooms down from you. Don’t worry, we’re okay.”
Rhona looked at the viewscreen to her right again. With her vision clearing, she could now make out the falsities in the imitation of the view of the stars. Out of nowhere, a thought hit her with a panic overriding anything the medications could do for her.
“Where’s Ila?”
There was a silence before Gant replied. The drone continued to talk to her, but the words fell on deaf ears.
“She didn’t make it, Katya. We lost her.”
The machine next to Rhona began to bleep some sort of alert.
“Katya, try to calm down, I know this is a lot to…”
She remembered walking next to Rae in the sun, sweating from carrying the squad’s carbines back from the servicing depot. The talk they had about emotions, feelings, what was real and what the IMTel took away. She remembered Rae’s inability to comprehend why Rhona would ever want to feel pain and sadness. Rhona had ordered the attack in the ravine. She had ordered Rae to her death. She owed Rae that sadness.
Reaching up with her right hand, Rhona grabbed a firm hold of the tubes which fed into her left forearm and wrenched them out of her veins. A more urgent tone emitted from the machine. The medi-drone rushed over to Rhona’s side. As if a filter had suddenly been removed, the impact of Rae’s death hit Rhona full on. She was gone, her life stamped out at the age of twenty-two. Rhona remembered the T7 explosion at Prostock, when her entire squad was torn apart during the assault on some last bastion of planetary defense, of running bac
k into the burning vehicle again and again as she tried to drag out the bloody bodies of her troopers. She remembered her father’s death, of the last desperate look the tired man gave her as he shouted for her to take her brother and run as the enforcers surrounded him. She remembered how many lives she had taken since joining C3, how many men and women she had gunned down whose only crime was defending their home, their way of life, from invasion. But above all, she remembered Ila Rae.
Rhona curled her legs up as far as the medical constraints would allow her, turning to one side and crying hysterically as Gant’s voice echoed in her head and the medi-drone desperately tried to re-attach the medication tubes into her arm.
***
Crystal Sea
Two kiloyan west of Firebase Alpha
Equatorial Region
Markov’s Prize
L-Day plus 51
The convoy of C3T7 transport drones cruised smoothly across the clear, purple tinted waters on the final approaches to the base carved out of the jungle at Firebase Alpha. Mandarin Owenne sat bolt upright in his narrow chair in the lead Duke, his eyes closed in concentration. Even after the battlefield repairs had been carried out the previous day on the drone, the magno-fan in the left wing continued to intermittently screech and squeal with each revolution of the suspensor generator. Owenne connected himself to the vehicle’s shard and ran a quick diagnostic check. Power output was at eighty quantum, so certainly sufficient to reach the proper maintenance facilities at Firebase Alpha.
Owenne glanced at the other occupants of the vehicle. Tahl sat opposite him, his one remaining eye closed either in concentration or due to weariness. He had lost his other eye in hand-to-hand combat with a Ghar assault trooper three days before. It was a minor setback – the medical facilities at Firebase Alpha had already grown a new eyeball for him based on the data held in his medical records, and it was only a minor operation of perhaps an hour or two to have it fitted.
Van Noor had approached Owenne and requested that he recommend Tahl for a medal for his valor in the previous seventeen days of continuous combat. His only justification was that Tahl had personally destroyed eleven Ghar battlesuits in hand-to-hand combat. Whilst this was impressive, Owenne had been forced to remind Van Noor that medals were awarded based on individuals overcoming seemingly insurmountable odds and exceeding C3 expectations of them. Given Tahl’s background as a martial artist of universal renown and undefeated cage fighter champion, the odds were heavily in Tahl’s favor every time he closed to within striking distance of a Ghar. Of course Owenne would not recommend him for a medal; by Tahl’s own standards, he had only achieved a touch above mediocrity.
As if guessing what Owenne was thinking about, Van Noor grimaced at him from the other side of the cramped passenger hold. Owenne flashed what he hoped was a sarcastic smile in return. Van Noor looked away. The only other occupant of the vehicle was Cane. The fourth trooper of the command squad, Kachi, had been gunned down by a Ghar bomber seven days ago.
“Mandarin Owenne,” Mandarin Luffe’s soft voice intruded his thoughts, “you are back within communications range. I have been waiting to converse with you.”
“Go on,” Owenne replied.
“I am analyzing the data of the previous seventeen days of confrontation now. I am pleased to see that your force stopped the Ghar dead in its tracks. We needed a victory.”
“I would describe it as a stalemate,” Owenne countered. “The 12th Assault Force has taken up the line and the Ghar are still there. But these men and women need rest. They were shattered when I got here, and the last seventeen days haven’t made it any better. They’ve suffered forty quantum casualties, and half of that is permanent.”
“Then get them rested, as our strategic situation is not improving. A second Ghar force has landed in the Banaab System. Our resources are stretched.”
“Aren’t they always?”
“There is more, Mandarin Owenne. Whilst you have been, how did you put it, ‘getting your hands dirty’, a shuttle landed on the far side of Markov’s Prize at these coordinates. I have traced the ship’s progress over the past few days. It has come from Freeborn space. I believe the ship originates from House Selestov.”
Owenne frowned, holding up a hand to silence whatever nonsense Van Noor was trying to tell him.
“Why are Freeborn mercenaries landing on Markov’s Prize?”
“Why indeed, Mandarin Owenne.”
“The question was rhetorical, Luffe, although I see only a few likely answers and none of them are good news. Leave it with me. I’ll find out what’s going on.”
“You fear they too believe this planet is Embryo?” Luffe queried.
“I fear nothing, Luffe. But it… concerns me.”
The drone jolted softly as it landed within a simple circle on the ground at Firebase Alpha’s transportation section.
“Oh, we’re here,” Owenne remarked, mentally unfastening his seat harness.
“That’s exactly what I told you, sir, a few seconds ago,” Van Noor grumbled.
“I was busy.”
“I thought NuHu were renowned for their mental capacity?” Van Noor shrugged.
“You’re more than welcome to go head to head with me in any intellectual comparison you care to imagine, you hulking primitive,” Owenne smiled smugly. “Now be a good fellow and open the door for me. I’m more important than you are, remember?”
The doors slid open and even Owenne found himself surprised by the sight which awaited him. Perhaps fifty soldiers, their green uniforms immaculately pressed, stood in three ranks facing the Dukes as they landed. A loud command was bellowed out by a woman who stood in front of them, and they all stood smartly to attention. Their crimson berets marked them out as elite drop troopers. Perplexed by the odd display of military ceremony, Owenne stepped down from the drone and pulled his battered peaked cap onto his head as another T7 landed further down the line.
The female drop captain marched smartly out to Owenne, a highly polished ceremonial saber held steadily in her right hand. The last Duke landed and another battered and disheveled squad of strike troopers filed out to behold the rows of shiny buttons and polished boots which stood in wait for them. As the last drone’s engines wound down to silence, the female drop captain came smartly to attention in front of Owenne and saluted smartly. He returned the salute, connecting to the drop company shard to find out who she was. Drop Captain Abbi Mosse, a rising star in the drop corps, recently singled out for potential promotion to drop commander and decorated many times for bravery and leadership.
“Drop Captain Mosse, Alpha Company, 3rd Drop Formation,” the red haired woman announced. “We heard about the 44th’s defense of the line in the Nienne Desert. We wanted to show our respect and welcome you back.”
“Err… Tahl?” Owenne shuffled uncomfortably. “Sort this one out, will you?”
Tahl limped over to Mosse, pulling his black beret over the bandages wrapped around his head and missing eye. He brought a hand up to salute her.
“Hello, Abbi.”
“Welcome back, Ryen. I’m glad you’re okay. Your boys and girls have made quite a name for themselves over the last few days.”
Owenne noticed the use of first names and quickly looked over Mosse’s service record. One reprimand, many years before. Inappropriate romantic relationship with a trooper under her command. Drop Trooper Tahl. Interesting, Owenne mused. He changed his mind almost immediately. It was not remotely interesting to him.
“This is for the 44th Strike Formation,” Mosse said, carefully handing over the gleaming ceremonial sword. “Hang it up in Formation HQ or something. We’ve spent the last few days carrying out strikes on Ghar supply bases behind their lines. Their defense was a lot weaker than we anticipated. C3 says it’s because they’ve moved so much to the frontlines due to the casualties they’ve taken. We were supposed to be supporting you, but it turns out that your lot have been supporting us.”
“Thank you,” Tahl said as he a
ccepted the sword, “and thank you for the gesture. This is a lot of effort, especially on ops.”
“This?” Mosse smiled. “My drop troopers always have their dress uniforms immaculate and their toe caps gleaming. This was only five minutes work.”
Tahl laughed and nodded.
“Thank you.”
Mosse saluted and turned to her right before marching back to her soldiers. The assembled drop troopers gave a series of loud cheers to the returning strike troopers.
Chapter Ten
Emerald Wing – Assigned to C3 Medical Corps
New Wryland Hospital
Markov’s Prize
Outside the window, life seemed to go on regardless of the fact that a Ghar invasion force was locked in bloody battle with C3 forces on the other side of the planet. Pedestrians walked the sun-drenched pavements, lined by trees clinically cut into smooth shapes like blue sculptures. Scenic fountains gently babbled away in the center of every road intersection. Concord drones carefully set about changing the roles of buildings that were no longer required now that the planet was part of the Concord; anything related to the outmoded need for money and finance would be removed from society.
Changing the controls on her chair, Rhona allowed the suspensors to power down and bring her back to a seated height which was just above the floor. She was clad in the same garb as every other patient in the recovery suite – simple white trousers and a plain, white t-shirt with a square, open neck not dissimilar to the dress uniforms she had seen on naval personnel. Perhaps twenty other patients shared the recovery room with her, all of them from the 44th Strike Formation, but only half a dozen of them were men she knew from Beta Company. The open plan room had comfortable sofas, immersive movie suites, holographic games; plenty to keep the mind occupied whilst bodies healed naturally, now that modern medicine had played its part.