by G. D. Stark
He clicked a remote and the image in front of us changed to that of a huge mechasuit, its limbs brightly painted and the head decorated with a steel-coated skull. “This here is a Sfodrian knight, wearing his traditional armor. That’s something like 18 feet of exo, and the man inside is an absolute master at his craft. The suits are built and maintained by crews of master technicians whose positions are hereditary. These guys are very hard to take down.”
“Zelag was wrong,” Ward said beside me. “The Feempers gotta be for those dudes.”
“They’re the crack troops as well as being the leaders of the nation. The other side of the coin is their civilian militia, which is a badly-equipped, poorly-trained mob. The militia has 200,000 members—technically—and they’re consistently whipped by the Axiosi. The Axiosi have a professional military of some 30,000 troops, though they get their butts handed to them whenever the Sfodrian knights get involved. So, it’s a strange, but stable balance of power.”
Ward elbowed me. “Cue the well-compensated imbalancing element.”
“You’re unbalanced,” I told him. He just snorted.
Marks clicked his remote again to show the complete planet hanging in space.
“Recently, the Sfodrians have been having issues with a mercenary force screwing with them. Since Pyrrha does not belong to the Ascendancy, but is a world holding membership in the League of Independent Planets, the TA won’t be getting involved in this one.”
Big surprise. Everyone wants to be independent until trouble comes knocking.
“These mercenaries managed to take out Sfodria’s one planetary defense cruiser a few months back,. Somehow they crashed it into a moon. A new ship, too.”
“Sfodrians probably crashed it themselves,” Ace muttered from beside me.
“They’re losing to these guys,” Marks continued. “The mercs are not abiding by any tech level restrictions and they’re working with the Axiosi. After losing multiple engagements, Sfodria decided to break open their piggy bank and hire the best in order to hit back hard. That’s where you come in. Any questions so far?”
“Yes sir,” Squid said in his gravelly smoker’s voice. “How big is this merc outfit?”
“We’re not sure,” Marks admitted.
“Follow-up question,” Squid said. “How many of us they paying to send?”
“A platoon,” Marks said. There was a rumble of surprise around the room at that. No one was really thrilled with the idea of fighting an unknown number of enemy hostiles with just 24 guys. Especially when said hostiles were backed up by 30,000 pros.
Squid voiced what we were thinking. “You mean to tell me, sir, that we’re gonna try and fight an unknown number of advanced-tech bad guys with a single platoon?”
Captain Marks smiled wryly. “Squid, you ought to know me better than that by now. You’re not gonna be dropped out there like orphans, without proper support. This is a cadre op, not a combat mission. You’re going to be training the Sfodrians and hopefully breaking them of their outdated habits so they can fight more effectively for themselves. You know what they say: Give a man a bodyguard and he’s safe for a day. Teach him how to kill everyone else around him and he’s safe for life. That said, the Sfodrian knights are some serious fighters, and they’ve been getting killed by these mercs. Twenty-five have been lost at last report and that’s absolutely unprecedented in their history. So, you are going in and you’re going to figure out how they’re losing, why they’re losing, and how to stop doing it.”
Marks clicked his remote and brought up an image of a knight in a field. His highly decorated armor was blackened with soot but looked otherwise unharmed. “Here, watch this encounter.”
The image began to move. It appeared to be captured via drone from above the knight. There was some plasma fire from a scrubby patch of brown woods and cacti. The knight rolled into a ball and rocketed towards the source of the fire at some 80 clicks per hour, tearing a rut and kicking up a cloud of dust as he moved. The plasma fire splattered off his armor without effect as he barreled up to the edge of the brush, then stood upright and brandished a pair of glowing energy swords, swinging them through the vegetation like butter as he moved in towards the enemy position.
“Can you believe this guy?” Jones said. “This is better than the last movie I saw since… ever!”
“That’s freaking intense,” Ward said.
A shell or a grenade blast burst in front of the knight, knocking him backwards. He snapped back up quickly, crouching and releasing a stream of pulsing energy blasts from his swords.
“What the devil, will you look at that?” someone said behind me, whistling at the improbable attack.
“I want one,” Zelag said, mostly to himself.
The fire from the woods came to a halt—but then another shell exploded from behind the knight, knocking him to the ground again. He recovered and spun about, unleashing more plasma, but then the camera blurred and moved out, showing multiple squads and artillery closing in on the man’s position.
“Why is this guy alone?” Ward muttered, watching as plasma and shells zipped in from multiple angles. It was hard to see with all the dust the fire was kicking up, but like ants swarming over a lizard, the Axiosi troops finally stopped the warrior, pinning him down under a relentless barrage until his armor failed and he was finally blown to pieces by incoming mortar shells.
We clapped, slowly, somberly, but respectfully. The man died well, and he took more than a few of his enemies with him.
“And there you have an example of their best warriors,” Marks said as the screen went black. “They’re good, but they’re not good enough. As you can see, the guy was alone—and they often fight alone. Sure, they’ll go out in a group when they have to, but they’re all on their own out there in the field. This guy got in over his head. Even with that, he apparently took out over a hundred troops, a couple of jeeps and a tank before they finally nailed him. Like I said, they’re good—and the armor is awesome. They just need some better tactics.”
He clicked his remote and switched the screen to another video. “Now let’s take a look at one of the mercs we’ll be facing.”
The footage rolled and I saw about a platoon of guys outside the walls of what looked like a power plant. The video was somewhat grainy and seemed to be a security camera capture from on top of a pole or something.
“These are some of the Sfodrian National Militia,” Marks narrated. “They were called out of the city after a report of a landing by an unknown craft. Keep your eyes to the right—in just a moment…”
There was a flash of light and a couple of men fell, causing the rest of the platoon to hit the ground. I couldn’t see the source of the fire thanks to the camera angle, but more came in with deadly rapidity, sweeping over the troops on the ground as they fired back with their rifles. One by one, all of them were taken out—and then something blurry moved into the frame through the fallen forms, distorting the bodies as it passed.
“Gotta be a cloaked suit,” Ward said quietly. “And some solid armor, too. I wonder where the rest of that guy’s squad is, though.”
“That’s it,” Marks said, answering Ward’s question. “One guy.”
On screen, the blur figure turned solid, revealing a black form in a battlesuit.
“That’s an Axiosi uniform, by the way. You’d never know he was anything else,” Marks said.
The man was carrying a bag from which he pulled multiple objects and attached them to the wall of the power station. He walked away — and about a minute later, the screen exploded into white static.
“One guy,” Marks said. “Took out the platoon, then blew the power station. Thoughts?”
“Yes,” Zelag spoke up. “This guy was slick. Obviously, the local troops weren’t ready for him and weren’t well-trained, but still, that’s not some pirate merc working off his gambling debts.”
“Yeah,” Jock said. “That camo suit probably cost more than a tank.”
“Agreed,�
�� Marks said. “It’s got to be a serious operation. And their use of high tech is why we had you guys training on the Sphinxes. Fight fire with fire, and tech with tech. Another thing to keep in mind is that they seem to be training the locals too. That first video you saw where the Axiosi took down a Sfodrian knight, those tactics were new, according to our clients. They’re learning to coordinate their assaults and take the initiative, rather than just heading for the hills whenever a knight appears.
“Unless anyone has a serious aversion to this mission and would rather be reassigned to janitorial duties, we’ve chosen you Bastards to go. I’ll brief Squid on your travel arrangements and he’ll take care of the rest. Any more questions?”
“Yes sir,” Jock said. “We really don’t have any idea at all who these mercs are, not even any rumors about rivals that might be operating in the area?”
“No idea,” Marks said. “They come in, hit a few things, leave, then come back again.”
“Could it be the Unity, sir?” Ward asked.
“That’s what you’re going to find out for us. Dismissed.”
Park munched on something that looked like a tumorous kidney as a group of us ate lunch in the cafeteria. Beside him, Zelag swallowed a slug of green liquid and shuddered, then pushed the glass away and tucked into a salad.
“What is that stuff you’re drinking?” I asked Zelag, as I took a bite of my cheesesteak sandwich.
“Kale juice,” he said. “Blame Jock.”
Park shook his head. “Some people have no tastebuds.”
I laughed, looking at Park’s disgusting meal. “Dude, you’re not one to talk about tastebuds.”
“Just like Mom used to make it,” Park said, slurping a forkful of wormlike strings in brown liquid.
“This looks like an interesting assignment,” Zelag said, changing the subject. “I’m telling you, it’s gotta be the Unity.”
“I dunno,” I said. “I don’t know much about them, but I doubt they’d be interested playing mercs for some petty world in the League. What do they care about money? It’s probably just a new corporate outfit.”
“Maybe they’re a gazillionaire’s new toy,” Park said. “The Unity hunts bigger game than some pissant war on a nothing planet.”
Zelag shrugged as he crunched on a crouton. “I hope so. I liked those guys with their huge servo-mechs, though. I saw a documentary on them once. They have these ancestral houses that custom-design the mechs, and the pilots have all kinds of honor codes and rules. Twenty of them once took an entire island of 100,000 people and made it a vassal state. Twenty! Can you believe that?”
“It looks cool enough, but it’s kind of stupid,” Jones said from behind me. He sat at the table with a plate of steak and potatoes. “If they didn’t blow all their resources on turning their nobles into one-man wrecking balls, they might actually have cash to fund a decent military.” He sawed off a chunk of steak and chewed it, talking around his mouthful of meat. “Looks like the regulars can’t fight their way out of a plastic bag.”
“I wouldn’t mind one of those plasma swords,” I admitted. “They were awesome.”
“Sure,” Park said. “Until you get pinned down at range.”
“They’re like the samurai,” Zelag said. We looked at him blankly. “Oh, come on,” he said. “Old Earth tribe called the Japaneesi. Super-sharp swords, lots of honor and tradition, just like the Sfodrians.”
“Honor won’t save you from artillery,” Jones said. “That’s why our motto is ‘off the chain’, not ‘be stupid and die following the stupid rules.’”
“They didn’t believe that way,” Zelag said. “In fact, they say an army of them attacked an emplacement of machine guns armed with nothing but their family swords.”
“What happened?” Park said.
“They all died,” Zelag confirmed my suspicions.
“Great story, Z,” Jones said. “See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
“So we’ll bring these guys into the 31st century,” I said. “Even some basic squad tactics would go a long way towards making them a first-class fighting force. They have the courage to burn, obviously. Morale, initiative, they’ve got everything you need for an elite unit.”
“And we need to train some sense into their regulars,” Zelag said. “They’re worse than cannon fodder now. Everything depends on those ancient knights with their blinged-out super-armor; meanwhile, the grunts get mowed down by a single merc in a camo suit.”
“Yeah,” Jones agreed. “Stupid.”
“Well, we better figure out how to make them less stupid,” I said, licking the grease off my fingers and grabbing my tray to leave. “I’m gonna pack up. See you at the briefing.”
Chapter 3
Squid told us that since we were only a platoon, Captain Marks had decided to send us via commercial liner instead of contracting a ship for us. That meant we had to find our civvie IDs and ditch all our guns and goodies, then dress like normal people. No gun-brand shirts, either, was the word from on high. That narrowed my choices—but it completely eliminated all of Zelag’s wardrobe. I ended up lending him a few of my shirts. We were assured, promised, and guaranteed that our weapons and gear would be sent safely on a separate transport. That elicited dubious groans all around. We all remembered Ulixis.
“I better not end up carting some crappy local rifle around in my long underwear,” Jones complained.
“You have long underwear?” I asked, but he was too busy trying to jam a game console into his carry-on pack to answer.
At 0500 our platoon stood in the cold morning air waiting for our transport to arrive at base, looking like the fittest, toughest, most technologically-enhanced group of civilians that ever walked the planet.
“These are for you boys to wear now and again on your flight,” Squid said, walking out with a couple of bags from which he withdrew matching purple shirts. “It’s part of your cover. You all are now fitness coaches working with a very respectable non-profit organization that didn’t exist until an hour ago.”
I held up the shirt he’d given me. On the left chest was a logo of a bicep containing a galaxy and the words “Team Galaxy Fitness!” in irritating letters that were apparently supposed to be funny.
“Don’t talk too much,” Squid continued, “but if you’re asked about what you do, you’re all really interested in teaching troubled youth the transformative power of active living.”
“The what power?” Ward looked puzzled.
“Troubled high school girls!” Jones looked pleased.
Squid turned to him and cocked an eyebrow. “When I said, ‘Don’t talk too much,’ I should have said ‘except for Jones.’ Jonesy, you don’t talk at all. To anyone. As for the rest of you, just be cool. We’re going incognito, but don’t let down your guard and don’t think this is a joke. We have no idea who we’re facing yet, so we don’t know how good their corporate spies are. We’re gonna be friendly but non-talkative, we’re gonna act like civilians, we’re not gonna push people around, we’re not going to get in any fights, and we’re gonna keep our eyes open. Clear?”
Squid tossed his now-empty bags into a recycler chute and lit up a cigar. After a few puffs, he spoke again. “Almost forgot to tell you. Whitter made it and he’s out of medical. The medics kept him alive long enough for the docs to get his implants straightened out. He’s not approved for duty yet, but he’s gonna be fine.”
A sigh of relief and approval swept through the group. Risking life and limb is part and parcel of being a mercenary, but somehow, it’s worse when you lose a man to something stupid and unnecessary. We once had a guy killed by a crate that fell out of a transport as we were offloading for a mission. Dead is dead, but still, there are worse ways to go than dying in battle. No one wants to be remembered as a joke, or worse, a screwup.
Everyone but Zelag put on the new purple shirts in the transport on the way to Ergman Memorial Spaceport. The ocular reader scanned our irises at the gate to confirm our reserv
ations, we worked our way through the security line, and eventually boarded the Terran Spaceways liner Gondola.
Gondola was one of those not-quite-a-cruise-ship ships that had decent cabins, simple rec facilities, a pair of bars and a round-the-clock cafeteria. Compared to a typical Wardogs transport, it was high-class passage. We did split rooms, though, as WDI’s accountants weren’t enthusiastic about wasting money on personal comfort.
Forward held the typical row seating where all passengers were belted in for takeoff before being released to the rest of the ship once we exited atmo. We scattered through the crowd in search of our seats. I ended up in between a opiate-thin syntar musician and a sour-faced old guy who looked like he lived on vinegar and aspirin.
“Hey,” the old guy said, trying to pack his carry-on into the overhead bin for takeoff. “Your syntar is taking up too much space.”